Catalyst
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: It all has to start somewhere.
1. Prologue: I

Title: Catalyst

Author: ScullyAsTrinity

Rating: PG-13, though as we all know, rating it soooo very likely to change.

Disclaimer: Me and the rest of Locard's Advocates all pitched in and bought em... and CBS... and yet, I still can't afford school. Odd.

Summary: It all has to start somewhere.

-

Gil Grissom was seldom tired. Even if he was though, he never made a point to show any outwards signs of it. But now, sitting in a hard, cold plastic seat, he could think of nothing more than his bed, a hot shower and a good seven months of sleep.

"This is freaking unbelievable," mumbled the blonde to his right, stressing every word with a certain amount of distain. "Freaking unbelievable." Her head was in her lap and her hands were massaging her neck tiredly. She could have done with a nice hot tub right then; she could have also done with a few good months of pure, blissful hibernation.

Gil gave her no response; his tongue wouldn't cooperate in a civil matter even if he tried to force it. His head wished to loll to the side, but his long reigning composure held it up, startlingly erect. She was right though, the entire situation was un-freaking-believable.

Catherine huffed incredibly, her whole body moving with the force of it. "Is it so much to ask, so much, for a flight from Seattle directly to Las Vegas?" Apparently it was. "Apparently, it is. You know, as if an hour on a packed plane in coach wasn't enough..." Trailing off, she realized it was no use to complain, it was falling on deaf ears.

LAX was loud, it was very loud. And bright. And the chairs, well the chairs were not comfortable at all. "When's our flight?" She popped up, tired hair bouncing, as if trying to regain some sort of volume.

Grissom turned slowly to her, licking his lips. "Seven," he glanced at his watch and nearly cringed. Catherine's eyebrows shot up and he moved his hand into her sight range. Glancing at the shiny face of the time device, she groaned. Another two hours laid over in L.A., hell, though art an airport.

"Can't we just... take another flight?"

"Do you have four hundred dollars you want to spend on a flight for a one hour flight?" He glanced at her and she stared back, completely devoid of emotion.

"Exchange the tickets?" She posed, hopeful lilt to her voice, though knowing that it was of absolutely no use.

He slumped back in his chair then, allowing his eyes to slip shut. "Not if we want to pass it off as the lab's expense." And he left it at that, sighing, clutching his coffee cup tighter in his palm. The warmth spread the way up his arm and only served in making him feel far more lethargic. Catherine sighed again and turned to the side, flopping her tired, sore, feet onto a chair beside her. Her back was to him and he could feel the heat pouring off of her.

Grumbling incoherently, Catherine shifted in her seat. "Did we even learn anything at that conference anyway? I mean, did you? Because I didn't."

Grissom wanted to say yes, that it had been an enlightening experience, but it hadn't been. In fact, they two CSIs had ended up giving an impromptu seminar of their own, much to the consternation of the convention staff. It had been condescending of them, sure, but it had to be done, or the other attendees would walk away with nothing to teach others.

And Grissom just couldn't have that.

There had been the requisite small talk, the mingling and the attempting to listen to other CSIs drone on about their own personal accomplishments. There were few people there who Grissom could stand to speak with for more than a few moments.

Ruth Baxter, a CSI 3 out of Salt Lake City had suggested that he trademark and sell his Red Creeper. She didn't in fact truly believe that, but had been charmed by him, nonchalantly slipping him her number on a piece of departmental Post-It. He'd smiled sheepishly, not knowing what to do (and certainly not wishing to be rude), until the woman had ambled off and he'd released the shaky breath he'd been holding.

Catherine had leaned over and whispered into his ear, "Feels good to get hit on, doesn't it?" She left him with a coy wink and another glass of merlot.

It didn't. And she knew that. So he'd shot her a disapproving glare and began counting down the hours until they could leave the Emerald City. He really and truly hated these things.

Now, sitting in the overly boisterous, garishly lit lobby-type place, he wished that he was back there. At least they'd been put up in a nice hotel. Gil began to drift off, just lilting towards a light sleep when Catherine, saccharin in her voice, spoke.

"You keep that number that... what's her face gave you?"

"Ruth." He mumbled by way of an answer.

Catherine chuckled, true mirth drawn between her lips. "Right, Ruth. Didja?" She pressed, lips drawn back in a nasty but amused smile. He glanced at her, raised a brow and closed his eyes once more.

Catherine's face fell. "No." She spoke and huffed, disappointed. "You know what Gil?" He voice rose, intention and aggravation rising to the surface. He poked his eyes open once more, glancing at her with more distain that he was sure he should be able to fathom. He wasn't really angry just... irritated.

"You need to get laid." The blonde said solidly.

It was his first instinct to gawk at her, but once again, he held his composure like a well-trained assassin. Cool, calm, deadly. "Excuse me?"

From time to time, he admired Catherine's gutsy way with words, her gusto for life, her ability to seize the moment and form bonds with people. Now, right then, it was wearing thin.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I said. You need to get laid. And you had the opportunity, too!" She threw up her hands in surrender and he finished the rest of his coffee, watching her overreact. "Just, you need to let... something go. Just, let it all out. Have sex. Find a woman and just, just, go to town."

Grissom wasn't really stunned to hear her trivialize intercourse to a simple stress relief mechanism. He was sure that she'd used the act as such in the past. He was stunned to hear her suggest it as a coping mechanism for him. It nearly made him smile.

"What makes you think I haven't?' he asked between sips. She sputtered and gaped at him.

"You haven't!"

"No, but I did enjoy the shock the idea caused you," he said with his little wry grin. He continued, "Sex shouldn't be trivialized to such a degree. For it to relieve stress, it has to be enjoyable, and for it to be enjoyed there has to be some form of emotion behind it." Again, he paused. "Preferably some form of passion, or love, or… something akin to either of those two."

She immediately shot him down. "No it doesn't!"

"Perhaps not for you." It was said neither condescendingly not imploringly, just stated as any simple observation would be.

Catherine's face grew into a sly smile. She knew, she'd known for a long time, she just wanted a bit more evidence before she took it to be the absolute truth. Gil Grissom had a soft spot in his withered little heart. "Oh. Right. I see." And Gil looked at her with a withering look and snapped his head away.

"I see... so, about that..."

TBC


	2. Prologue: II

Spoilers: Actually, the CSI novel "Cold Burn".

-

"Yeah, they're laid over. If it wasn't enough that Cath was buckled down with the passenger from hell..." Sara announced, walking into the break room, looking sufficiently more chipper than usual. The color was high in her cheeks, and her hair looked like she'd actually taken the time to set it that morning. She'd chosen a bright blouse over cranberry pants; an infusion of color and passion, Sara Sidle looked much more alive than she had in the past few months.

Nick stuck his head out of his newspaper. "Passenger from hell? How would you know that?" It was said to be amusing, but she has an answer prepared for him. She always did, he should have known by now.

"That lecture series, in New York, with the murder _slash _suicide?" It wasn't a question, but Sara knew that when she took that tone, Nick got aggravated, and she thoroughly enjoyed annoying the shit out of Nick. He nodded, biting his lip.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He replied, waving her off with one hand, while the other reached over to grab his coffee. Sara smiled and took a place at the table, languidly stirring her coffee with the plastic rod. Humming to herself, she leaned back and settled in intending to take her break for all it was worth, as she'd been pouring over crime scene photos for nearly four hours. A banal task, but at least it was work.

Warrick Brown swaggered into the room, his dull, cologne alerting both CSIs to his presence. He smelled humid and spicy, and Sara smiled at the scent. For some reason, it reassured her, reminded her of autumn. He addressed his coworkers, "Working so hard guys."

Nick shrugged, as did Sara, neither bothering to answer him as he slipped into a chair alongside them at the table. "What's goin down, Sara?" He knew very well there nothing, in fact, was going down.

The brunette smiled slightly and gave him a lopsided grin. "Nothing. Griss and Cath are stuck in LA, layover from Seattle. Can you believe that? And well, I'm not onto anything... except pouring over those shots from the Zelinski house last week. Out of habit." She gulped her coffee and realized that she was incredibly bored with her assignment. "And out of boredom. God, is it me, or with Griss and Cath gone are we... lost?"

Nick paused in his reading, flipping his newspaper over. "I... am not lost. I'm very..."

"Found?" Warrick ribbed and Nick glared while Sara sputtered out a laugh.

"I was going to say centered and _invested_." He shot back at his friend, sharing a half-assed glare with the man. It was fruitless, they dissolved into laughter for a moment. Then, the room was overcome by silence. Sara tapped her nails on the table and glanced around as if something would catch her attention.

"Guys, I'm so bored." Sara said, neither complaining nor whining. "This is bad. Does crime like, stop when they're away? Is it me?" A hasty breath was pushed out passed her lips and she tapped her fingers again on the table.

Warrick brushed it off. "So what if it does? I've worked three doubles, haven't seen sleep in a week. I'm all about relaxing for a bit." Nick understood exactly what he was saying and nodded, more coffee being gulped down. Sara just sighed a little sigh and sipped at her coffee miserably. She could pretend to be completely miserable, but she wasn't. For the first time in weeks, she was relaxed and rejuvenated, ready to dive back into work when Grissom and Catherine returned.

But, gathering from the phone conversation she'd had with Catherine, the woman might be returning from the conference solo. Her patience was on a very short tether, and Grissom's non-committal answers to her attempts at conversation only irked her more so. Sara could see, in her head, Catherine finally succumbing to her desires and bashing Grissom over the head with something very heavy.

"Well, I have to be doing something. Something useful. Something... other than sitting in a room looking over friggin pictures." Sara smiled. "And talk to you guys."

Warrick chuckled, grabbing a section of Nick's paper from him. "Don't I know it."

"What the hell does that mean?" Sara gaped, good-naturedly, but interested.

"Don't think we don't _know _your gusto girl," Warrick drawled. "You forget, you went after me, not gonna forget that." He grinned at her when her face fell. "If there's a 'bad guy' out there to catch, you'll get him."

Sara couldn't help it. "If." She laughed. It was true, she had gone after Warrick with a certain amount of vengeance, but that had only been because Gil Grissom had asked her to do it, and that meant it had to be handled properly, with the utmost attention and care.

Sara brushed it off. "Yeah, yeah." Sipping her coffee, she allowed her eyes to slip closed and listened to the casual banter that Nick and Warrick had indulged in. From the scant bits and pieces she grasped onto, Warrick was planning something with... someone, and Nick had a date on Thursday night. Two morsels of information that didn't really catch her fancy at all.

She felt herself drifting off...

Brass skittered into the room then, folder in hand, sweat clinging to his brow. "Got a 419, who wants to ride with me?"

Sara was out of her seat before either of the other two CSIs had a chance to respond. "Dear God, me." And with that she and Brass were gone.


	3. Initial Findings

Grissom not only carried his bags with him off of the plane, he carried about a hundred or so pounds of raw nerves as well. His shoulders were heavy and sore when he'd finally reached his townhouse and though he tried to work it out, neither the hot shower nor the long sleep he indulged in did anything.

That was why, upon arriving at CSI headquarters the following night, supervisor Gil Grissom was not a happy camper. He was so far from camp that he couldn't even see the lodge. His appearance could have been an accurate barometer of the trip-long, boring and a waste of time. He wore the hours spent like an obligation, he couldn't let it go.

Catherine Willows, on the other hand, was the picture of perk; spring in her step, volume in her hair, twinkle in her eye. Amazing, at what three hours of sleep could do for her. If he'd been a self-deprecating man, he would have been sure to send a few curt words her way, but he reined in his temper, took a breath and attempted to cool off.

The blonde moved up alongside him as he strode down the hall to his office. "Evenin'," were her words of greeting for the beginning of shift. In her hand she held a coffee cup and after a moment she held it out to him. He scrutinized it for a moment and then, after a half-assed thank you in the form of a smile, he took the offering.

"Thanks." Grissom offered and settled into the cup, the rich scent of French vanilla wafting delightfully into his nose. Salvation in the form of a caffeinated beverage.

Alright, so perhaps the night wouldn't all be downhill. Starbucks dark roast and a new case to lose himself in, what more could a workaholic coffee drinker want?

Stretching as a preamble to sitting, he nearly groaned, but sunk into the worn leather thankfully. If he was going to approach the case objectively, he'd need to unwind for a moment, perhaps go over the tiny details that Sara had supplied him with.

"Alright," Catherine threw her hair out of her eyes, licking her lips, planning to launch into the details. "We have, what, a John Doe, teenage boy, suspicious circs up the whazzoo, no concrete trace... no footprints at all... but that's not surprising... I guess I'll look over the missing persons database, see what I can come up with, ID the body."

Grissom nodded, sipping from his cup appreciatively. "I'll comb over the scene again with Sara, see if there's anything to pull."

But there wasn't anything. Nothing. No footprints, no sign of disturbance. It was as if the earth had offered up the body from its depths, like it had appeared from nowhere.

So, though it wasn't the first time, they had to rely on Doc Robbins and his findings.

Catherine, Sara and Grissom, all adorned in ill-fitting scrubs stood around the morgue table, waiting for the doctor to begin speaking.

"First call would have been overdose. Tox screen came back unusually quickly." The doctor handed the paper to Grissom, and the two women flanked him to look over his shoulders at the paper. "Enough lysergic acid diethylamide to stun an oxen, that's figurative, of course."

Catherine's voice was indignant when she spoke. "Of course." She was busy wondering how in the world anyone could take that much LSD, especially a kid who appeared to have known more than a little about narcotics. "How much does that... seven hundred micrograms? Is that right?"

Doc Robbins shrugged and nodded, moving on in his explanation.

Catherine shook her head and looked to Sara. "That kid wasn't just tripping, he was falling." Sara nodded, brows raised, also quite shocked with the teen's intake.

"It appears he took it in window pane form." Robbins said, gesturing to the goo-like substance that sat in an extraction tray to the right of him. Both the women were about to ask exactly what he meant by that when Grissom supplied the answer.

"In gelatin form. More potent than say, a tablet, or a power." Impressed, Al nodded at his colleague. "Forty-eight hours, damn, that kid must have been pumped up," he muttered and looked down at the boy.

Sara moved around the other side of the table to examine the mixture in the pan. Without removing her eyes, she made an extremely casual observation. "So... he was high."

"As a kite, a kite pushing around Saturn, but... as I said, that's not what killed him."

Grissom blanched, licked his lips and scrunched his brow, deep in thought. "You're saying the lethal dose he took, wasn't lethal?"

Robbins shook his head in the negative.

"Al, that would take effect nearly immediately. For there to be-"

Robbins held up his hand, immediately stopping Grissom from speaking any further. "Blunt force trauma might have been it too. See this impression at the base of the skull?" With his free hand, the doctor shifted the body over to reveal a large, broken lump at the base of the teen's skull. The three CSIs nodded. Catherine nearly cringed at the scabbed over blood.

"I'd say... baseball bat."

Catherine caught onto what the good doctor was getting at. "But... that's not what killed him." Her voice held a twinge of sarcasm that she just couldn't seem to repress.

With a certain amount of ceremony, Doc Robbins pulled back the stark white sheet to reveal the boy's torso.

"Stabbed?" Grissom nearly squeaked, causing an impromptu smile to spark across both Sara and Catherine's lips.

"And we have a winner. Blunt object... see this bruising around the wound? Quite a bit of force behind this."

Grissom's mind began to formulate possible scenarios, but he knew that without more evidence, trying to do so was moot. His hands came up as he tried to rationalize what they were being told. "So... he bled out?" Grissom asked, somewhat irritated.

Doc nodded. "But..."

It was Sara's turn to squeak. "There's more?"

"Patience Sara," Robbins chided. Biting her lips, she huffed a sigh and shut up, as if she was the person to bring up the absurdity of the situation in the first place.

"There's water in the wound tract."

Catherine grabbed the report at her side and flipped it open. Sara was blatantly upset for one moment, as it had been her case before the two of them had arrived back in town. Technically she was the primary, but she let it slide, not wanting to excite Catherine any further. "It... didn't rain." The blonde finally supplied, looking to Sara for the ultimate confirmation. She too shook her head. "And the lividity suggests that he wasn't moved after he was... dumped..."

Grissom spoke up, idea threatening to screech from his head. "Could it be condensation perhaps? From the weapon?"

Robbins shook his head. "Nah, I wouldn't say so, it's a significant amount." Sticking the scope in, a picture appeared on the viewing screen above the table. "See here, the water isn't in the blood, it's on it. This appeared here post-mortem."

Non-plussed, the CSIs thanked the doctor, de-scrubbed and walked from the dark morgue. Their steps were slow and unsure as they paced down the halls toward the layout room.

Catherine was the first to speak, her voice desolate, arms crossed over her chest. "So we have a John Doe, no murder weapon, no concrete trace evidence..."

Sara huffed a humorless laugh. "Oh yeah, this one should be easy."

Grissom shot the two women a rather optimistic glance and disappeared, off to his office.

Sara swore she could smell vanilla on him and it nearly did her in.


End file.
